


Well, You *Said* Take What’s Mine

by afteriwake



Series: nongentorum [41]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Background Case, Calm Molly, Established Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Grumpy Lestrade, Humor, Lestrade-centric, POV Lestrade, Poor Lestrade, Secret Relationship, Sherlock Being Annoying, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 21:06:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7817215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has had virtually no sleep for days and is at the end of his patience when he’s called to a crime scene at Baker Street, where someone has supposedly died in front of Sherlock and Molly. After having had enough of Sherlock’s flippancy he makes an off-the-cuff statement and is quite surprised at Sherlock’s reaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well, You *Said* Take What’s Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CuriousVanilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuriousVanilla/gifts).



> So my friend **WakingJune** challenged me to write a fic that tweaked [this prompt](http://imaginetheotp.tumblr.com/post/146911450480/imagine-your-otp-getting-into-a-huge-argument-and) from **imaginetheotp** that goes " _Imagine your OTP getting into a huge argument and Person A yells 'Just take whatever’s yours and leave!' and Person B picks person A up and walks out the door_ " that went something like this:
> 
> _*Molly, Greg and Sherlock at a crime scene*_   
>  _*so technically not otp fighting since I’m adding a third person*_
> 
> _*Greg being a little fed up and tired because it has been three days and he’s only functional because he had very little sleep and shit tons of coffee in his system. I’m also imagining he has a pet peeve for cluttered spaces*_
> 
> _Greg: *with a resigned sigh, to sherlock, case files/evidence all over the lab, sees mess* I have no bloody time for this. I don’t care. Just take what is yours and leave._
> 
> _Sherlock: *nods once, heads straight to Molly then carries her over his shoulder*_   
>  _Good day!_
> 
> I tweaked it a _little_ bit more, but I hope you enjoy it anyway, hun!

“I’m ok, thank you. Just please, stop talking to me.” 

All he wanted was sleep. It was almost like the universe was against him; every time he tried to get some sleep someone or something prevented him from getting any rest. A scant hour here or there, maybe. If even that, to be quite honest. But no _real_ rest. He was running on so much coffee he was surprised there was any left in the whole of London, and now he was at 221B Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper and a dead body. Sherlock was expected, the body somewhat expected, but Molly was a surprise. And he was fairly sure Sherlock had just fed him some cock and bull story of _just_ how the body had ended up in the sitting room.

Sherlock glared and opened his mouth to say more but Molly reached over and touched his arm. He looked over at her and she shook her head and he sighed. “Fine,” he grumbled, crossing his arms.

Lestrade viewed the scene curiously. Since when had they gotten so cozy that she could be over at his home at… He glanced at his watch. 3:27 in the morning? That was rather peculiar. “Look, when you’re ready to tell me what _really_ happened here tonight, I’d appreciate it.”

“But I did,” Sherlock said flatly.

“No. You gave me some made up version of events,” Lestrade said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock, if it was self-defense, we’ll find out and you won’t get in trouble. It won’t be like _him_ again.”

“I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with this,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. 

Lestrade shut his eyes and counted to ten and then looked over at Molly. “Could you talk some sense into him, Molly?”

“He’s telling the truth, I swear,” she said. “I’ll swear it on a stack of nine hundred bibles if I have to.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at that. “That’s a bit specific.”

“Really, we were preoccupied and the man burst in and said he had to talk to Sherlock and then he just...collapsed. And he had the gunshot wound already and we tried to do lifesaving measures but they didn’t work.”

“Did the man say anything before he died?” Lestrade said, deciding against his better judgment to just go with their story since they were both obviously sticking with it.

“Nothing that would concern Scotland Yard,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock...” Lestrade said warningly.

“It’s a matter of importance to the Crown,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “I can’t divulge what he said without clearing it with my brother first.”

Lestrade groaned. “Oh, God, is this going to be one of _those_ cases? One of the ones that’s a royal headache, pardon the pun?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said evasively.

“I should pound you into the bloody ground,” Lestrade said angrily. “It’s been three days and I’ve managed to get _maybe_ ten hours of sleep. I have more coffee in my bloodstream than blood. And you’re about to sic the Ice Man on me for a case when you know he and I get along like oil and water ever since the smear on your name.”

“Yes, well, you _did_ let Anderson and Donovan override your common sense,” Sherlock said.

A vein bulged in Lestrade’s neck. “I swear, Sherlock, you are getting on my last bloody nerve.”

“Perhaps it might be best if you step outside for a bit, Sherlock,” Molly said gently.

“That’s a good idea. Take what’s yours and get out,” Lestrade said through gritted teeth. He realized how silly he sounded when this was Sherlock’s flat but really, he just wanted the man out of his sight.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment and then turned to Molly, picking her up and hoisting her over his shoulder fireman carry style. She squeaked at that. “Let me go!” she said.

“Well, he said take what was mine and as the rest of the room is a crime scene you’re all I can remove,” he said, heading for his bedroom.

“Oh, you moron,” she said, though in a tone that suggested she didn’t _really_ mean it.

Lestrade blinked for a moment, watching them walk away as a few things suddenly clicked into place. How Molly’s clothing had looked slightly disarrayed, and how Sherlock hadn’t looked quite his impeccable self, and why neither of their outfits had blood on them. Why Molly was at his flat so early in the morning. How they could have been “preoccupied” with other things when the dying man had arrived. 

Bloody hell. Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper were shagging each other's brains out.

He slumped against the counter of the kitchen as he took that in. Well, now _that_ was a secret well worth keeping, he supposed. Not that they really could much longer, not with a dead body at the flat and the brazen exit he and the soccos had just witnessed. He supposed the cat was out of the bag now. And even as his mobile rang and he saw that it was Mycroft Holmes and he knew he was about to begin one of the more uncomfortable conversations of his day, he had to take comfort in the fact that, if nothing else, someone else’s day might have been ruined as well.

After all, he had to take small comforts in _something_.


End file.
